


All For You

by JG Firefly (Phoenix_Call)



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Valentine’s Day, a smidge of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 16:44:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17832317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_Call/pseuds/JG%20Firefly
Summary: They weren’t supposed to celebrate Valentine’s Day. It was more of a tradition for them not to, really. Still, some traditions are worth breaking.





	All For You

**Author's Note:**

> I’m late to the Valentine’s party, but here’s some fluff with very little plot, and just a dollop of smut on top.

_**Laura (8:12 PM):** I know it’s cheesy and you hate it… but it’s tomorrow in London, so Happy Valentine’s, Carm :)_

For the third time in the past hour, Carmilla clicked off her phone, the screen going dark and taking the message with it. Outside the taxi window, she watched her usual Starbucks stop-in whisk past, and a moment later they slowed into a line of traffic at a stop light.

They were only a few blocks away, now—closer, in fact, than the bus stop she used to frequent back when Laura was working late evenings and her bike was in the shop.

As they eased forward, she rapped on the plastic divider. “Change of plans. Can you let me off up here?”

The driver, who she suspected was the source of the tuna fish smell she had been ensconced in for the past hour, gave a grunt of acknowledgement.

_It’s cheesy and you hate it_ , played over another dozen times in her head, before she was free to dust herself off on the sidewalk, bag slung over one shoulder and carry-on bumping along at her heels.

_You hate it_.

She ducked into the little shop, ignored the other patrons—three men of varying ages, all looking rather out of their element—and passed over several crisp bills at the counter.

And then she stopped next-door, as well, for good measure.

Which only left three blocks between her and home—between her and _Laura._

She did hate the holiday, of course. It _was_ cheesy, and absurd, and entirely based around the concept of her doing _exactly what she had just done_ with her money.  The first year that February 14th had come around, they had only been seeing one another for a few weeks, and they had both ignored the holiday entirely. Carmilla had been relieved.  

And then, the second year, Laura’s smile had been a little too forced, when she promised she didn’t care about doing something special. They had eaten dinner at the apartment like it were any other Tuesday, and watched Jeopardy in their pajamas… and when Laura brought up the flowers Perry had received at work, there was no ill-intent or jealousy behind the words.

But there was a wishing, and when Laura been shy, had been _uncertain_ in her request for a romantic evening several weeks later, Carmilla knew that on some level she had fucked up.

So they had gotten dinner at a place with white cloth napkins, where sommeliers kept your glasses full, where it was expected that you would get something decadent to share for dessert. And Carmilla had hoped that Laura believed it when they were curled in the sheets that evening and she told her just how far she had fallen for her.

_“You know you didn’t need to plan all of that,”_ Laura had hummed, nose scrunching up the way that Carmilla loved; bare, golden arms lacing around to hold her close.

That was the very reason she enjoyed doing it, though. She would pick up a nicer bottle of wine just because she got a whim, or get home early on a random Thursday and cooked authentic Italian for them to share over candlelight. She would pull Laura into a waltz in their living room, pushing aside the couch and not caring that there wasn’t music.

The reason only needed to be that they were in love.

And not that some holiday dictated she prove it for the sake of Laura’s coworkers.

But, then there was last year. Last year when the ginger twins had wanted to do a couple’s evening, but Laura had turned them down without consulting her. Last year, when she had only mentioned it off-hand a week later, and been surprised when Carmilla was upset.

_“But you don’t_ like _Valentine’s,”_ she had insisted, _“I just… thought you’d rather stay in; it’s like our tradition.”_

Their building had jumped into view, the yellowed bricks an eyesore in a sea of reds and browns, and Carmilla reorganized her holdings in preparation for the three flights of stairs that would follow. The single red rose was carefully tucked through the flap of her backpack, the paper bag of treats rolled more tightly shut and clasped with the suitcase handle.

Of course Laura had resigned herself to celebrating the holiday _Carmilla’s_ way. It almost shouldn’t have been a surprise. She had fought Carmilla tooth and nail on bathroom cleanliness, on dish washing and proper sleeping habits; but she had immediately been on board for the extra rent needed for Carmilla’s art studio, the space she took up in their tiny closet for her camera accessories, the lack of seafood in their diets merely because Carmilla disliked the taste.

When Carmilla’s late Christmas with Mattie and Will had aligned with Valentine’s, Laura hadn’t so much as brought up the holiday. She had insisted only that she would miss Carmilla the whole two weeks, and that she would have gladly come along if there weren’t lectures to give and exams to write up.

Their apartment was the fourth on the left, and she slowed her pace significantly as she climbed the final flight. She had already taken too many liberties with her delicate cargo, and she hoped the macaron shells had mostly survived their jouncing, but, more so than that, she didn’t want to give away her arrival.

She could have easily had Laura meet her at the airport. Every time she had gone away in the past—even for as little as a weekend—Laura had shown up at the bottom of the escalator with a dorky sign and a giant grin. Carmilla had foregone that far more pleasing return in favor of this surprise… and she wasn’t going to waste the effort.

Thursday morning meant that Laura was home, probably going over essays and responding to emails. She had taken on two courses this year, and Carmilla was endlessly proud of her growing status at the university, but the side effect was that any time not spent actively teaching was spent in office hours, or meetings, or hunched over their kitchen counter mumbling about the syllabus—red pen in hand and stacks of notes piled beside.

As she carefully slipped the key into the lock, she was expecting to discover the latter.

Instead, she was hit with a wall of sound.

The thumping she had heard in the hallway—which she had assumed could only belong to the punk-rock couple living in 302—was instead resounding from within her own apartment. Which also smelled like someone had lobbed a cinnamon bomb through the window.

Setting her things down in the narrow foyer, she turned the lock in her wake, collected her gifts, and padded carefully around the corner without bothering to remove her boots.

The apartment, which Carmilla had only ever seen spotless, even after she had moved in, was littered with unwashed dishes and lonely socks. There was a jacket tossed aimlessly over the back of the couch, two mugs with coffee lip-stains about the rim sitting side-by-side on an end table, and half the books had been pulled from the bookshelves in what looked to be an abandoned attempt at color-coding by spine.

The last lines of something preppy and most likely Taylor-Swift-created faded out, and the opening piano notes of the next song jumped to life.

“Yes!” came a cry of victory from the kitchen, followed immediately by lyrics that Carmilla recognized with ease. _Love Song_ by Sara Bareilles had been a staple for several weeks while Laura was working on a freelance piece about the music industry. Carmilla had heard the story behind its _‘feminist, stick it to the man message’_ a good dozen times.

Laura, who could have a lovely voice when she was trying—or when she knew Carmilla was listening—continued to warble off-key and enthusiastic as Carmilla slipped between their furniture and around the last turn of their tiny apartment.

They had wanted something more ‘open concept’, or at least, Laura had, but this was what they had been able to afford. And Laura had wasted no time covering the many walls with Carmilla’s work, regardless. There were two paintings behind the couch, and three smaller pieces in the hallway, and some of her older photography had taken up residence in every nook, from frames on the bookshelves to the space over their toilet.

She passed the collection of travel photos that Laura had carefully organized just before she came into view of the kitchen.

The sight that greeted her was one she was wonderfully familiar with. Laura, in pajama bottoms and a sinfully tight tank top, was surrounded by baking supplies. There was a dusting of flour in her hair, and she mumbled through several of the lyrics as she measured out a precise tablespoon of something-or-other.

Carmilla let herself enjoy the view for a moment: the way Laura’s smile was so at ease, with no one watching. The way she glowed as she spun about, and the furrow of concentration with each new ingredient she added to the mix.

There were already cookies on the counters, too, and what appeared to be brownies as well. Amidst the clutter of ingredients, the splatters of frosting and batter, there were wire racks and plates piled high, and several Tupperware containers filled to the brim.

“Feeding an army?” she asked, stepping into the kitchen proper and leaning an elbow on the counter.

The scream Laura let out was really more of a yelp, and Carmilla had to compliment her aim, because when the spoon came flying in her direction, it bounced square off her forehead.

Recognition came second, followed immediately by horror—and then both were drowned out under the tidal wave of Laura’s embrace.

“You’re early!” she declared, over and over, pressing a series of kisses along Carmilla’s cheeks, her nose, the line of her jaw. “You’re—so—early… and you scared me half to _death,_ you jerk!”

Her spoon lost to the floor, she settled for whacking Carmilla lightly on the arm, her anger barely a blip in comparison to the bright spark in her eyes.

 “I would have picked you up at the airport—and you never texted me back, either! Is this why? Were you in the air? And when did you even get away? What happened with Mattie and Will?”

As she leaned back, fingers sliding over the hollows Carmilla’s cheekbones, she reached up to push back her hair and frown properly at the wound her spoon had wrought. She pressed a kiss there, too, and Carmilla could not have cared less about the dull ache.

“We can do 20 questions later, cupcake. Right now…”

Disentangling herself was the last thing she wanted to do—after two weeks of seeing Laura’s face through her phone screen, and sleeping with only the cool wrap of sheets about her, there was nothing more she wanted than to never let go again—but she slid free regardless. When she held out the gifts, she felt far more sheepish than she had imagined.

Normally, her ‘big gestures’ were more thoroughly planned. She relished in laying out the perfect scene, and in waiting for the turn of Laura’s key and the astonishment on her face when she came in. This, she had only put together in the last twelve hours.

Still, she had been expecting more than a puzzled frown.

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” Laura said.

Carmilla completed the unspoken question with a half smile, “And I hate Valentine’s Day.”

Laura nodded, the frown still digging lines into her brow. Carmilla could see a smudge of chocolate in the dip of her temple.

She offered the rose again, chewing on the edge of her lip despite herself.

“You don’t.”

There was pink coloring Laura’s ears as she took the flower, and the way she ducked her head pulled Carmilla back in time to a first date—Laura’s fingers shaking as she shoved her hair back behind her ear for the third time in a ten minute span, her face reddening every time Carmilla caught her eyes drifting southward.

“You didn’t have to do this, you know. It _is_ a commercial holiday, and you were supposed to be spending time with your family. Half the _fun_ is teasing you about how much you hate it. Plus, I didn’t even get you anything—”

Carmilla pulled her back in close, pressing their lips firmly together, and Laura’s stuttering, the waving of her hands… it all stilled into something that felt a lot like an _oh_. Laura sighed into her, her hands finding purchase first on her jacket, and then on the faded t-shirt beneath.

Both layers peeled off with ease, their noses brushing along cheeks and breaths burning hot against each other’s lips with each parting, and it was a scramble of limbs and two very loud _thumps_ of tossed-aside boots before Carmilla found herself perched on the edge of the counter, Laura’s fingers digging into her thighs and her tongue tracing deliciously between her folds, neither of them caring about the baking supplies that had tumbled into the sink.

“Fuck,” she hissed, as Laura nudged her nose against her clit, and she distantly heard a crash as her hands flew to find purchase somewhere—one of them in Laura’s hair, the other in something chocolate-based.

She was never spending this long apart again, she vowed somewhere in the back of her mind, as Laura tested two fingers at her entrance, curling them just once before she fell apart.

And she could taste herself on Laura’s tongue, when she kissed her way up Carmilla’s torso to find her lips once more, mingling with chocolate and cinnamon and the familiar sweetness that was just _Laura_.

When they pulled apart, Laura’s eyes were bright, but the furrow was back. She pushed Carmilla’s frazzled hair out of her eyes, fingers delicate along her cheekbones, and regarded her curiously.

“I love you,” she said. Her eyes strayed to the rose, to the forgotten—and definitely crushed—macarons. “That’s what I was trying to say.”

Carmilla grinned, raising an eyebrow. “Trust me, cupcake… you’re very _articulate_ when you want to be.”

Laura’s smile, somehow, was all the more wicked. She reached for Carmilla’s hand, and half the brownie batter seemed to come along when she lifted it from the bowl. And then she licked up the length of Carmilla’s pinky finger before sucking it fully into her mouth.

She released it with a loud pop.

“I know,” she said simply.

Carmilla very nearly put her other hand into a stray plate of cookies.

“But that’s not what I meant.” Laura shook her head, and this time the kiss she pressed to Carmilla’s lips was chaste but slow. It left her eyelids fluttering and her thoughts very firmly whirling back onto the path of _never leaving for this long again._ “What I meant was that… I love _you_. So much, Carm. Definitely more than I could ever care about some holiday. And… enough that I clearly don’t do so well without you.”

Carmilla took in the blush on her cheeks, the sheepish way her gaze darted about the filthy apartment, and slid carefully down from her perch on the counter so they were eye-level once more.

“I love you too,” she said quietly. “And you love Valentine’s… so I expect full cooperation when I break tradition next year.”

Laura frowned. “Are we not breaking tradition this year?”

“Well…”

Carmilla reached up, dabbing chocolate onto Laura’s lip and trailing it, slowly, down the line of her chin, the arc of her throat, the dip of her chest. Laura’s breath hitched, and Carmilla had shifted close enough that it was easy to breathe her next words directly into her ear.

“I don’t see us leaving the apartment today.”

 


End file.
